Because I'm Still Wandering
by Vivere La Vita
Summary: Because she died here, because the deer are still eating the same, bloodied grass, because even after five years, this is still a graveyard. And now, now its too late. Because I've missed my chance-because she's Peeta's girl.


I stepped off of the steaming-red engine train, taking the time to squeeze the already crushed invitation in my clenched fists. The brakes churned, the smoke billowed, and the cars chugged away, and I was left on the wooden planks of a train station with my thoughts. My hands were clammy with sweat, and when I looked down, thinking I was to brush the drops off my fingers, I saw that the blue ink had stained my skin.

I swallowed, running my fingers through my short hair, before taking the few steps off the platform and onto the streets, where the smooth paved roads became covered in children's hop-scotch chalkings. It was almost as if I had been knocked over the head, those few short seconds before a person blanks out when you're hazy, not sure of what's actually happening. Words are slurred, writing is indiscernible, and colors are waned and bent to look solid. The streets were empty, a few bikes parked among houses, the trees empty of coal dust. District twelve operated as a tourist site I've been told recently since the coal had run out.

My eyes seemed to burn from the inside out, a second and third vision replacing my own. When I saw the clear, cloudy sky, the brown dowdy geese flocking above seemed to melt into aluminum frames of silver, racing past the sun to detonate bombs over the city. I shook my head, walking quicker in the cool breeze to erase memories. A leaf snapped under my boots, and I froze with the crackle of snapped skulls until I realized that skulls don't drop from trees. At least, they don't any more.

I opened the palm of my hand nervously, casually checking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't watched upon. It's like a switch is thrown open in your brain for a fight-or-flight signal, and it can't be switched off. So even though I know, like I really, really know I'm safe, I still patted the knife hidden in my coat sleeves before reaching for the gilded invitation. The edges were stamped in silver lace, the blue, swirling cursive smeared and rumpled. The woods. How…katniss. I'm surprised they didn't want to get married in a Baker's shop. He probably built a heavy, ten-tired cake frosted with mockingjays, just for the hell of it. It better be buttercream. It's her favorite, even if she's only had it once when we had a little extra to jingle in our pockets.

I should have sent in the invitation, even if it was to say that I wouldn't come, even though I'm standing in a graveyard of five years. Houses were caked with freshly made white plaster, the coal dust swept from the streets and mines blasted inward. A few rusty beams that had survived the blast had been coated in a special, highly-governmental resin to seal and preserve the wreckage the way it had fallen. Katniss must have pulled some strings, especially to have the words engraved in gold among the edges of the iron. _To rest in peace, my loves. _ I stepped closer, my nose almost touching, sniffing the rusted edges full of tangy iron. Candles, burned to the stubbed wax, photographs, trinkets, beaded brackets and necklaces, wrapped around and around the base of the stone.

_Someone had left primroses, bright and yellow, on the base of the statue. _

In the cold breeze, I could hear a girl, singing, a high ready tune that sent goose bumps up my spine before walking, running, sprinting away, sweat coating the outside of my brow.

_I had built that bomb. I killed her sister. Sister. Prim._

My breath shuddered, my rib cage catching in my lungs. She probably hates me now. Fuck, I had hated myself. Still do, really. I sniffed, the breeze catching at my chapped lips. I stared in front at the stone walkways leading into the worn, trampled grass, my vision hazy with the internal vertigo. The fence. Where's the Fence? I glanced around, wildly, my hands almost instinctively reaching out in front of me, as if there was something solid to climb over.

Stupid. Of course there's no fence.

I took a step on the tufted wildflowers, tentatively, almost waiting for the poppy seeds to burst into flames.

Stupid. It's just a forest.

Stones, bright pebbles led a path that seemed many have walked over, as they were scattered and muddy. The trees seemed to be thicker, almost regrown, a few birds, not mockingjays, but just birds, flittering among the thin branches. A familiar deer head poked out from among a bush, but it seemed tame, starring for a few moments at my face, before bounding out from among its hiding place and back into the branches.

I sniffed again, wiping my face on the thick, luxurious lambs wool jacket that I was given as the general Engineer in District two. I had money, I had girls, I had a car. Not just a car. A captiolian, rich, sporty, red streaks painted down the car doors. White walled tires. But katniss could probably run faster than its 20 mph highway tank. Most people probably could-considering it was built to crooze among the asphalt-paved streets.

Bells. Three, low bells sounded out among the bushes, a green swirl of satin vanishing in the leaves. My heart dropped, picked itself up again, and controlled my legs to walk over and watch the procession.

The Daily Meebler had envisioned tall, graceful bridesmaids with golden veils and green silks, dancing around an altar made of pure marble. Haymitch might have directed the service, a survivor of the Hunger games. But by that reasoning, I should have married the happy couple. Fuck. Wouldn't that be highly ironical. The man who's aching to fuck the bride marrying her to the biggest bastard of all time. But then again, I'm labeled as the money-obsessing loser who left her after the war. It wasn't true. Not most of it. I left to make a name out of myself, to hopefully, maybe, give her a better life. I'm stupid. Peeta was right. Absence doesn't make the heart grow fonder. Absence lets the lucky bastard get the girl.

Wait. Her marriage isn't supposed to be today. I looked back down at the invitation, the shreds almost crumbling.

She's getting married tomorrow.

Right?

I looked down at the empty chairs, lined in neat columns in the hundreds, decked in streamers and tiny trays that absent-mindedly floated around in the air, to be loaded with par fars, as sort of popular Capitol pie, and tiny champagne flutes. I knew Katniss wouldn't have wanted that. She would have wanted something private. She wouldn't want so share the forest.

So she's getting married a day earlier, because she wants it to be secret. Haymitch whispered something in Peeta's ear, maybe advice on how to kiss her. He's probably not even good. Not that I want to try or anything.

Katniss. Her face, facing away from me, her hair in that simple brown braid, a few, tiny gray hairs mingled in the twists. A loose, yellow-green, sun faded, cotton dress hung around her mid-thighs, short, brown boots scuffed and worn. She would have lines, tiny, worry, depressed, smile lines around her eyes, clear, cold, bright and sorrowful. That's if, she would turn around, smile her thin-and-plump lips. Maybe run from the altar into my arms, to smile and whisper, "let's go hunting."

But it's wishing, because she's turning to smile, and I see the bright flame in her stone eyes. And even though I could already picture what she looked like, could smell the primroses in her hair, could feel the smooth skin of her hands, to actually glimpse a memory, a real, whole, katniss, was a miracle. I don't think she saw me, hiding, watching, in the bushes. I don't think she did. Would she have smiled? Laughed? Frowned? I don't know. Because I left, ran, skipped, a frightened hare caught in the gaze of a stone-tipped arrow. I think the rustling might have broken their kiss, a strong lip-lock, tears running down both of their faces, Haymitch smiling slightly, absentmindedly touching the flask in his pocket. Did she hear? Maybe. If she did, it's not like she's running after me or something. I can't hear footsteps.

Thinking of it, they've probably slept together. Ate together. Maybe she tried to teach him hunting. I felt a wet drop on my cheek. Fuck. But I can't care anymore. She's happy. He's happy. And me? I'm just Gale. Running. Always, Forever, Running.

Skipping? Go to hell.


End file.
